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THE TALE OF THE 
GOLDEN EGG 


A Story Founded on Facts 




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PUBLISHED BY 

GOLDEN EGG PUBLISHING COMPANY 
BUFFALO, N. Y. 


Copyright 1910 


by 

Kugene W, Harrington. 

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CCLA278436 


PREFACE 


This story is founded on facts. 

I T IS the belief of the writer that there are 
thousands of young men in the United States 
today with whom the problem of making a 
living is a serious proposition. They are working 
long hours for small salaries, under circumstances 
which are far from pleasant, making life one contin- 
ual struggle to properly maintain themselves and 
their families. 

The writer knows the possibilities in the raising 
of high-class poultry, and that it is a very simple 
matter to clear $iyOOO per year upon the smallest kind 
of an investment. This sum can be increased to 
$^yOOO and 1^15,000 per year in a short time after 
one embarks in the poultry industry, providing the 
doctrines laid down in this little volume are carefully 
followed. 

It is for the purpose of placing these facts before 
a hundred thousand young men who want to he inde- 
pendent and lay up something for a rainy day that 
this book is written. If my object in this regard shall 
be achieved I shall feel that I have been well com- 
pensated for the labor necessary in the production 
of this book. It positively points the way to health, 
wealth and independence. It opens up a field, to the 
possibilities of which there is no limit. 

“Cal Stoddard.*’ 






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•Vi. 




The Tale of the Golden Egg 


CHAPTER 1. 

“Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, 
Unnatural and full of contradictions; 

Yet others of our most romantic schemes 

Are something more than fictions.” — Hood. 

; i 

I S THAT plain Connecticut mullenstalk you’re 
smoking, Sam, or is it one of those juicy brown 
berries that make Morgan’s millions look like a 
sick guinea pig that’s been vaccinated with a serum 
of sulphur.?” asked Hi Edwards, his roommate, as 
Sam sat looking out of a top-story window of one of 
those two-dollar-per-week detention houses for “them 
as what ain’t got the price for more scrumptious 
quarters.” 

“Hi, if I could corner the market on the ‘little 
fellows’ that bring me those dreams, occasionally, I 
could revolutionize the economic condition of a mil- 
lion human beings who are now drudging away their 
lives as members of that great and glorious colony 
known as the overworked and underfed,” replied 
Sam Willard. 

Hi Edwards was a city-bred boy, whose feet had 
trod only the paved streets of the Metropolis, and 
an occasional Saturday afternoon was the only oppor- 
tunity afforded him in which to see the green fields 
and get in touch with nature. 

He had never known what it was to hunt frogs, 
fish in the creek under the kindly shade of a big 
willow tree or be lulled to a perfect rest by the chirp 


8 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


of the cricket. Only in story had he been told of 
the beauties of life in the country, and a few hours 
on the big White Way after supper was the only 
suggestion of enjoyment that ever entered his mind. 

Sam, to the contrary, was a "‘country Jake*’ — 
that’s what the fellows dubbed him. When they were 
discussing the standing of the Giants in the National 
League, the odds on the Fitzsimmons-Corbett fight 
or studying the dope sheet for the next day’s races 
at Sheepshead Bay Sam was engrossed in dreams 
of other days. 

“Well, cut it out, Sam, cut it out,” came from Hi, 
“and we’ll go down the pike and see the moving 
pictures.” 

“Not for mine. Hi, there’s nothing to it. Why, talk 
about moving pictures! If I just knew the words 
that could paint the moving pictures that are always 
before my lamps so that the great, hungry horde of 
humanity could see them, slavery would surely be a 
thing of the past. 

“If I could only let the thousands of souls that 
yearn for a good, deep breath of real oxygen know 
how easy it is to get it, they’d put up a big monument 
to my memory on the Riverside Drive. If the mil- 
lions who spend their lives inhaling the dead air of 
the office and department dens could only get a 
glimpse of those big, blue hills that used to greet my 
vision every morning they wouldn’t wonder why the 
old homestead means so much to a fellow brought up 
in the country. And every night, when the drudgery 
of the day has made life look like a forty-to-one shot, 
I can see those old hills with their forests and fields 
standing outlined against the sky, beckoning with 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


9 


an earnestness I can hardly withstand. I can see 
the old folks resting in the cool of the evening from 
the labors of the day. Not such labors as come to us 
chaps in the city, Hi, but those labors which fill the 
heart with a great hunk of happiness and send you 
to your hens’ feather ‘Ostermoor’ with a feeling of 
love for your fellow man and a secure belief in the 
goodness of the Almighty.” 

“That’s got a great noise to it, Sam, and I pre- 
sume it’s all right, but, so long! Me for the big rattle 
of Hammerstein’s roof garden, with a few scuttles of 
froth, and the Hungarian Hummers playing an ac- 
companiment to the tune of that pathetic ballad, 
‘Wait Till the Sun Shines, Nellie.’ And, Sam, if your 
pipe goes out before I get back I hope you’ll ‘come 
to’ long enough to remember that dreaming doesn’t 
produce the dough for this week’s room rent or 
coffee and sinkers for your morning meal. 

“Every picture show I’ve seen for the past three 
years always springs some ‘near Caruso’ during the 
evening, who asks in a tremolo-fortissimo, ‘Please 
Let My Dream Come True’ — ‘When Will My 
Dream Come True’ — or ‘Dearie, Dream On.’ No 
one ever says, ‘My Golden Dream’s Come True,’ 
or that it’s coming true. They’re always wondering 
if it will, knowing all the time that there’s about as 
much chance that it will as there is for a yellow dog 
to get through the bowery without having a tin can 
tied to his tail; and it might be well for you to bear 
in mind that perhaps the little hunk of red hair and 
freckled face called Kitty, and whose father is Town 
Constable up there in Vermont, the one that you 
think — mind, Sam, I said think — of leading up to 


10 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


that little brick building with the ivy running up 
around the door, where they sell double-riveted and 
steel-bound neckyokes for them as wants to spend 
the balance of their lives in double harness, is maybe 
doing some thinking while you’re dreaming. 

“It’s too bad that those big beef magnates have 
so little concern for us poor devils, but facts are funny 
things to flirt with. You’ve got to eat, Sam, and 
dreams don’t do in place of porterhouse steak, and 
you’ve got to have a hole in the wall somewhere in 
this big buzz where you can crawl in at night. The 
rapacious maw of the Metropolitan landlady won’t 
be satisfied with any story about ‘beautiful blue 
hills,’ or ‘sapphire skies at sunset.’ Just think it 
over, Sam. So long.” 

He did. The biggest part of that sultry August night 
was spent in thinking and dreaming. Thinking of all 
that Hi had said; thinkingof what he had come to New 
York to do; thinking of all that success or failure 
meant to him, and again dreaming the old dreams over. 

The next day found him again at the steady grind 
of his twelve-dollar-per-week drudgery. It was 
drudgery, because Sam’s heart was not in his work. 
For nearly two years he had kept on, always hoping 
for fortune to so smile upon his efforts that some day 
his dreams of a comfortable country home with Kitty 
would be realized. Three hundred and twenty dollars 
was the total sum of his savings for two years of hard 
work. Yet he was hopeful. Hope gave him the forti- 
tude and patience to undergo the torture of the daily 
grind. Hope often lent a rosy tinge to a picture of 
somber hue and kept a current of energy flowing 
from a dynamo of indifference and despair. 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. ii 

Five hundred dollars was all he wanted. If this 
sum had been his, Sam Willard would never have 
left that little country village up in Vermont. To 
carry into effect a plan that was well matured in 
Sam’s mind required no more. 

It was only two weeks, after the conversation just 
recited, to the Saturday when Sam’s employers had 
allowed him a two-weeks vacation, without pay. 

As he packed every earthly belonging in his 
suit case, preparatory to taking the Rutland Express 
for home, the thoughts which came to his mind were 
those experienced by thousands of the best youths 
of our country, lured to the city by fairy tales of 
“big pay for easy work” and the brightly painted 
pictures of pleasurable enjoyments that never 
materialize. 

After going the rounds, giving each of his fellow- 
workers a hearty hand clasp at his departure, he 
called Hi to one side and said, “ Pard, we’ve chummed 
together for some time. I’ve always found your feet 
warm and your heart in the right place. You’ve 
kidded me a whole lot and dubbed me a ‘dreamer of 
dainty dreams,’ but you can’t understand the hell 
that this two years of life in the city has been to me. 
I wish I could tell you what I’ve got in mind, but I’d 
rather not until experience has proven that I’m right. 

“I’m going back to Vermont to stay, and when the 
time comes. Hi, I’m going to send for you to come up to 
Vermont, up to my home. I’m going to show you how 
God intended folks to live and what He provided for 
their comfort and happiness. Good-bye, Hi, old pard. 
It’s me for the big, blue hills and my freckle-faced 
sweetheart. This town is no place for a fellow that’s 


12 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


wallowed in the clover fields and heard the chatter 
of the blue birds in the furrow. There’s no orchestra 
in the world whose music can equal that of the song 
birds singing a lullaby to their young. There’s no 
picture than can compare with that which nature 
paints daily for those who love its environment. The 
most poetic fancy God ever created would starve to 
death in this vastness of artificiality. So, again, I 
say. Hi, it’s back to the farm for me, and good-bye 
to the Big White Way forever. If I succeed, I should 
count my life a failure if the story of my success was 
not carried to the millions of young fellows who, like 
ourselves, are slaves, as fully almost as those freed 
by the Emancipation Proclamation of Abraham Lin- 
coln. You are today giving of your life to enhance 
the wealth of a great corporation and not to benefit 
the world at large. You are not a producer, you are 
only a consumer. When you cease your labors for 
the day you have not added to the material wealth 
or welfare of the country in which you live. A life- 
time of such servitude would not enable you to point 
to a single thing of which you could say, ‘That was my 
work. I did it.’ If I am right, I mean that the world 
shall know it and that when posterity shall speak 
my name it will be a story of useful endeavor and 
of a life well spent. If material success shall also 
come, I propose to place the facts by which that suc- 
cess was achieved before my fellow men, and the title 
of the narrative shall be, ‘The Tale of the Golden 


CHAPTER II. 


T he most popular and best known man in Fair- 
view Township was Uncle Jeddy Peters. Since 
the close of the war his eyes had never closed 
in sleep unless he was upon his own comfortable 
estate adjoining the corporation limits of Fairview. 
There were a number of farmers living within a few 
miles of this little hamlet who each season as they 
planted their crops figured out how much it would take 
at harvest time to feed Uncle Jeddy’s mortgage. Not- 
withstanding the fact that on interest day he required 
settlement to the penny there was not a man in the 
whole State of Vermont who was better liked than 
this bright-eyed old Yankee bachelor. 

He was, in fact, Sam Willard’s uncle, Sam’s 
mother being Uncle Jeddy’s sister and, although he 
had never let Sam know it, Sam was really the apple 
of Uncle Jeddy’s eye. 

The Rutland Express did not make a regular stop 
at Fairview, but whenever there was a passenger 
from New York, which seldom happened, the express 
was allowed to stop. 

As Uncle Jed drove home from the postoffice on 
Saturday evening he passed the Rollinson home- 
stead. In front of the house, following her usual 
custom, stood Kitty with a big, green watering pot 
in her hand, giving an evening drink to her favorite 
flowers. 

Reining old Jim up close to the hitching post 
Uncle Jed called out with a merry inflection to his 
voice, “If you’ve a mind to git that air pink dress 
of yourn on and be reddy ’bout half past six in the 


4 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


mornin’, I’ll stop on my way down to the station 
and take you along.” That was the only invitation 
necessary, for Kitty knew very well who was coming 
on the Rutland Express and had counted every 
moment to the time of its arrival. 

So as Sam stepped off the morning train the ones 
to greet him were Kitty and Uncle Jed. A hearty 
hand-shake and several slaps on his big, broad 
shoulders was the welcome from Uncle Jed, while 
Kitty’s freckles simply showed more plainly against 
the heightened color of her rosy cheeks. 

“Gess mebby you’re right glad to get back, ain’t 
you, Sam,” said Uncle Jed, “and judgin’ from the 
looks of them air cheeks of yourn the milk that 
you’ve been a gettin’ in New York ain’t had any too 
much butter fat in it.” 

As the trio walked around the corner of the sta- 
tion, old Jim pricked up his ears, seemingly to ex- 
tend a horse welcome to the boy whose voice he had 
known from colthood. As they drove along towards 
the Willard homestead Sam’s eyes would occasion- 
ally slip from an admiring glance at the little country 
girl who rode by his side and take in a great, deep 
draught of those dear old hills, bathed in the bright- 
ness of the early morning sun. The resolve he had 
expressed to Hi Edwards the night before was 
strengthened as he rode along. Whether this was due 
to the beauties of nature as reflected in the fields of 
waving grain, or in the blue eyes of his little sweet- 
heart it would be difficult to say. The fact was that 
it’did grow stronger. 

“There’s mother, Sam,” said Kitty. “She’s 
waving at you from the north porch.” And sure 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


15 


enough, as Sam looked, his eyes rested upon the 
familiar figure of that dear old mother, and the 
outlines of that dear old home nestling among the 
foot hills of the Blue Range. It made a picture 
most impressive. 

“S’pose es haow that air picter Inks purty darned 
good to you, don’t it, Sam,” said Uncle Jed. 

“Well, Uncle, to tell you just how I feel would 
take a form of speech of which I’m not capable. You 
know sometimes words fail to say all that a fellow 
would like to say.” The latter remark was accom- 
panied by a significant glance at Kitty. 

“Oh! Sam, my boy, how good it is to have you 
home again. Good morning, Kitty and Jed. I gess 
ez haow you’ve got a bigger load of happiness on that 
old democrat waggin of yourn than you’ve ever had 
afore,” said Sam’s mother as she welcomed her only 
son. 

“I s’pose ez haow that’s a fact,” said Uncle Jed, 
“but I’ll bet a bag uv oats against a tud stool that you 
couldn’t sell it to Bill Higgins for nothin.’ Corse, bein’ 
ez haow I’m one of them durned old hard-shell 
bachellers, s’pose I ain’t got no bizness figurin’ out 
the value of a load of happiness. But, there’s one 
thing sartin, and that’s ever since I started a hitchin’ 
up old Jim, to go down to the stashun this mornin’, 
seems jest ez if all creashun wuz a smilin’ its brightest 
welcome for Sam. I’ll be durned if my old Adam’s 
apple didn’t git so big I could hardly swaller when I 
seen him git off the train.” 

“Father’s doin’ the milkin’, Sam. Spose you and 
Kitty run daown the lane and s’prise him,” suggested 
Mrs. Willard. 


6 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


“All right, mother. By the way, you can’t have 
breakfast any too soon to suit me. The sight of these 
hills and the old familiar scenes have brought me an 
appetite I haven’t had since I was home a year ago. 
Ah! Here comes dear old dad, now.” 

As Sam’s father approached, a suspicion of mois- 
ture in his eyes and a huskineSs in his voice told 
more than words could tell of the old man’s feelings 
as he gazed at the pale features of big, husky Sam 
and realized that his boy was home again. 

“Well, Sam,” said his father, setting down the 
two pails of milk he was bringing to the house, “they’s 
a sayin’ sum wheres ez sez, ‘Everything cums to 
him ez waits,’ but, by gosh. I’ve been a durned long 
time a waitin’ for you to cum home.” 

“Well, dad, your waiting, I guess, is over. If things 
come my way, as I hope they will, they won’t have 
to stop the Rutland Express for me again for some 
time to come. Of course, this little lady here will 
have something to say about it, but I’m hoping that 
she will say the right thing at the right time.” 

“Breakfast is ready,” called Sam’s mother, and 
in a few moments the Willard dining room was a 
beehive of happiness, and Sam’s first Sunday morn- 
ing at home was one that will always remain as fresh 
in his memory as the green meadowlands of Fairview 
in the month of June. 

To detail all that was said that Sunday morning 
would be to simply paint a picture with which many 
readers of this little story are only too familiar. No 
photographic reproduction could portray the happy 
light in each eye. This old New England farmhouse, 
with its gambrel roof, and large white columns in 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


17 


front; the bed of hollyhocks beside the porch; old 
Shep, the family dog, that Sam raised from a puppy, 
lazily sleeping in the shade of the lilacs; Mrs. 
Willard^s early flock of Rhode Island Red Chicks 
making their morning meal of bugs from the roadside 
lawn and, inside, a happiness which comes only to 
those who find their daily toil under the noonday sun, 
drinking ever those oxygen concoctions brewed by 
Nature up among those grand old New England hills. 

The morning meal over, Sam looked out over the 
pasture lot with a longing gaze and said, “Kitty, if 
you’ll just visit with mother for a few moments I’d 
like to walk down through the orchard and say 
‘good morning’ to the Jerseys grazing over yonder, 
and have a little play spell with old Shep. He’s just 
aching for a little romp with me and, to tell the truth, 
I guess maybe I’m just as anxious as he is.” 

“All right, Sam, I’ll help mother clear away the 
dishes, and by that time maybe Uncle Jed will be 
ready to take me down home.” 

“I’d like you to stay until after I have a little talk 
with Uncle Jed, if you don’t mind, Kitty. I suppose 
you’ve got your morning chores all done, haven’t 
you. Uncle Jed 

“Chores be durned,” said Uncle Jed. “Thay 
ain’t no chores to bother me much these days, and 
I ain’t got to begin figurin’ interest for a week yit.” 

“Well, suppose you walk along with me, then, 
Uncle. The morning sun seems to be smiling a wel- 
come for everybody, and the shade of the orchard will 
be a fine place for a Sunday morning chat.” 

Kitty knew from Sam’s letters what that “chat” 
with Uncle Jed referred to, so with a sly wink to 
Kitty, Sam and Uncle Jed started out on what proved 
to be a most memorable Sunday morning stroll. 


CHAPTER III. 


W HEN Sam had concluded his romp with old 
Shep he had ample evidence of the fact that 
two years of city life had not improved the 
condition of that perfect physique which he possessed 
when he left the farm to secure his fortune in the 
Metropolis. In fact, he was completely “winded,” and 
was blowing like an old horse with the heaves. As he 
and Uncle Jed arrived in the welcome shade of the 
orchard trees, laden with their abundant fruitage, 
Sam was only too glad to sit down. 

“That’s what city life does for a fellow. Uncle 
Jed,” said Sam. “When I left Fairview I could run 
a mile and never ‘lay a hair.’ Now, if I run the length 
of a fence rail. I’m puffing like a glandered mule. 

“Two years ago, when I got up in the morning, I 
felt like one of those Canadian bear cats, ready to 
eat anything that came my way. Now, I get up feeling 
more tired than when I went to bed. Mealtime at 
mother’s table used to mean a time of genuine enjoy- 
ment. Mealtime these days is coupled with a usual 
nightmare of pains in my gastric region, which the 
doctor kindly diagnoses ‘intestinal indigestion.’ I 
really believe that another year of selling tape would 
put me in the list of chronic invalids and make me 
a candidate for the Old Men’s Home.” 

“Well, Sam,” said Uncle Jed, “folks hez alius 
sed ez haow the Peterses wuz a long-lived family, 
and I don’t want nothin’ a happenin’ to you ez will 
be a takin’ you off afore your time.” 

“Oh! It isn’t as bad as all that. Uncle Jed, but I’ve 
got a notion that there’s always a place for a man 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


19 


that’s willing to work, and in some occupation that’s 
congenial. Every day for the past year I’ve been going 
to my work with a feeling of servitude that made 
me a changed being. That’s not the way for a man 
to feel. Work should be a pleasure, not a nightmare. 
What a man does should be an expression of his 
love for what he does. It should mirror what he 
feels. Otherwise, the world is not getting from that 
man his full value as an asset in the economic scheme 
of life. Life to the individual who works under the 
lash is only an echo of life as compared to him whose 
work is an expression of the best there is in him. 
I’ve had the experience and I know. I propose, there- 
fore, if good health is vouchsafed for me, that each 
day shall find me among the list of producers to 
the material wealth and welfare of the world, in- 
stead of among the list of consumers and no- 
accounts.” 

“Sam, I’m durned proud to be the uncle of a chap 
what has ideas like them. They’s a wealth of boss 
sense in what you’ve been a sayin’, and I like to hear 
you git so rale earnest like. It sort of puts me in 
mind of old Parley Gardner, that ust to own the 
quarter section next to mine. 

“Parley would come daown to Bill Higginses 
grocery store, set on a sugar barrel and entertain 
the fellers what enjoyed the society of ‘ Bill’s Rangin’ 
Round Club’ by a tearin’ off grate big hunks of his 
Aristitolian Filosofy, as he ust to call it. Well, Parley 
kept peddlin’ out his filosofy from the stencilled end of 
that air sugar barrel until ther seetof his pants looked 
like a piece of cheese cloth, and ther mark on that air 
barrel had wore rite through into his durned hide. 


20 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


“While Parley wuz a makin’ the soshul end of 
Fairview a howlin’ success I wuz tillin’ the soil, 
gettin’ in crops and layin’ aside a few shekels for 
a rainy day. In the fall of ’84, Parley had been a- 
sowin’ a big crop of filosofy, and when harvestin’ 
time come raound ’bout all he had to show for it 
was a big crop of bull thistles and pig weed. The 
Tax Collector come ’round that fall jist the same 
as he had every fall and he found Parley without 
’nough ready cash to pay his taxes or his hired man 
for the year. So, to help Parley out, I had to take a 
mortgage on his quarter section; and about the time 
Bill Higgins got so sick uv havin’ him ’round that 
he kicked him out uv the store and set the dog on 
him I had to foreclose my mortgage and take the 
land. Last time I heard of Parley he was workin’ 
for twelve shilllin’s a week and ‘found,’ carryin’ 
around one of them air transparencies which was 
advertisin’ Quaker Oats on one side and something 
called Liquid Veneer on tuther side. 

“Corse, I don’t mean to say ez haow you’ll ever 
turn out like Parley did, but I thought it might be 
just ez well fer you to know about Parley and what 
usually happens to fellers what git so durned poet- 
ical in their filosofy that they lose sight of practical 
facts. I ain’t so thick-headed that I don’t see what 
you’re drivin’ at, and corse I know you’ve got that 
air chicken farm bizness in your hed this very 
minute.” 

“Yes, Uncle Jed, you’re certainly a good guesser, 
and that same chicken farm that is now in my head, 
as you say, has been running through my mind during 
the past year of my serving time in that hell-hole of 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 2 1 

corruption which is marked on the map as Man- 
hattan Island, or New York City. 

“You always told me to be slow in making up 
my mind, but when I felt sure that I was right to 
sail in and prove it. I have fully made up my mind 
that I am right, and I am certain that with five 
hundred dollars as a starter I can in five years 
make such progress along the lines that I have laid 
out as will bring me health, happiness and an inde- 
pendence. 

“You haven’t a chick or child in the world. Uncle 
Jed, and I know that you have a sufficient amount 
of this world’s goods to insure your whole future and 
old age against want. It has occurred to me that 
money isn’t the only thing in the world, and that I 
would be perfectly justified in asking you for a loan 
of enough money which, added to what I now have, 
would make the necessary capital to enable me to 
launch my project. It is not much. Uncle Jed, that 
I am asking, and when you stop to think that per- 
haps my whole future, my health and the happiness 
of that little girl whom you brought down to the 
station this morning, and myself are directly in- 
volved, you should have no hesitancy in staking me, 
so to speak, for the start which promises in my 
judgment such splendid results. 

“My letters have told you of how earnestly I have 
thought this matter over, and I made up my niind 
to take the first opportunity which presented itself 
and throw myself upon your sympathies and ask 
for your support. I sincerely hope you won’t refuse 
me. Uncle Jed, because of the fact that so much 
depends upon it.” 


22 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


It was not so much what Sam Willard said to his 
uncle out there under the shade of the orchard trees 
that made an impression, but it was the earnestness 
with which he spoke. When Sam had finished, Uncle 
Jed looked him squarely in the eye for a few moments 
and then turned and walked down the lane for about 
twenty rods without saying a word. 

As Sam sat wondering what Uncle Jed would say, 
the old man retraced his footsteps to where Sam was 
sitting and, dropping down on the grass beside him, 
said, “Sam, it’s all true what you’ve bin a-sayin’. 
Thay is sure somethin’ in this life besides money, 
and while I ain’t never had much confidence in this 
here dream of yourn I’m not only goin’ to loan you 
’nuf money to make five hundred dollars, but I’m 
goin’ to give you five hundred dollars in hard cash. 

“What I’m goin’ to give you with it is one hundred 
times more valuable than the money itself, and that 
is my blessin’s for you and that air little gal. I hope 
that you’ll make her and yourself so durned happy 
that your hides won’t be able to hold you. And, 
more than that, Sam, if you find yourself at any 
time a-runnin’ short don’t forgit where your Uncle 
Jed lives and that, if his hide is thick, he’s got a 
heart under his ragged vest that’s a-beatin’ a two- 
minut clip for his nephew and them what’s associated 
with him. Now, that’s ’nuf said. We ain’t got to talk 
no more ’bout it, and from now on I’d like to see 
you jist as busily engaged in doin’ somethin’, es you’ve 
bin in the past two years a-dreamin’ ’bout doin’ 
somethin’.” 

As the two men arose from where they had been 
sitting, their hands met, but there was no need for 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 23 

conversation. The silence of the moment as they 
stood there squarely looking at each other — the 
young man’s heart filled v^ith gratitude which no 
words could express; the old man with a feeling of 
pleasurable enjoyment that he had not felt before 
for years — presented a little drama in real life such 
as is seldom seen. 

They strolled back to the house, Sam’s arm linked 
into that of Uncle Jed’s, and of all the moments in 
Sam Willard’s life this was the most supremely 
happy. 

Uncle Jed did not take Kitty back home that 
morning, for it was Sam who walked down the road 
with her towards the Rollinson homestead. Before 
the close of this Sabbath day, which had been ushered 
in by the Rutland Express leaving Sam Willard at 
the Fairview station, he had secured the promise 
of Kitty to join him as a silent partner in the estab- 
lishment of a farm which, while its purpose was the 
raising of chickens and the production of eggs, ulti- 
mately proved to be a farm for the propagation and 
healthful rearing of a new family of Willards. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Five Hundred Dollars. Fairview, Aug. , 19 

FIRST NATIONAL BANK. 

Pay to Samuel Willard or order 

Five Hundred Dollars 

and charge to the account of Jed Peters. 

“My donation to a dream.” 


I T WAS just a week to a day from the time that 
Sam told Hi Edwards of his resolve to quit the 
Big White Way for the blue hills of Vermont 
that Uncle Jed handed him a check, of which the above 
is a copy. In a talk with Sam Uncle Jed had imposed 
but one condition to his “donation to a dream,” and 
that was that Sam should keep an accurate account of 
how every penny of this sum was expended and make 
a yearly statement to Uncle Jed of what he had on 
hand at the time to represent his investment. This 
Sam promised faithfully to do, and every plan as 
made carried with it the details necessary to secure 
a compliance with Uncle Jed’s wish. 

Knowing Uncle Jed’s peculiarities, no one knew 
better than Sam the responsibility that he was taking 
upon his shoulders in making this promise. He had 
gone into his scheme in talking with Uncle Jed and 
had shown him to the most minute detail every step 
he proposed to take. 

First, he had rented the Kendall cottage with its 
poultry houses and ten acres of land at a yearly 
rental of one hundred and twenty dollars, payable 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 25 

ten dollars each month, the Widow Kendall to pay 
all taxes and to give Sam possession of the poultry 
buildings September first, and the cottage on the first 
of November. For Sam’s purpose this was an ideal 
place. 

Mr. Kendall, for many years postmaster at Fair- 
view, had been a poultry fancier from childhood. He 
had completed but a few months before his death an 
ideal poultry plant, built upon the most up-to-date 
lines to insure the health of his flock and the easiest 
arrangement for their care. The property was ideally 
situated, being high and dry with a gradual slope 
to the south and east. At the lower west side of the 
small wood lot, which constituted a run or pasture 
for the poultry during the heated season, there was 
an abundant, in fact, luxurious growth of holly. In 
view of this fact, through a conference held between 
Sam, Uncle Jed and Kitty, it was decided to name 
their poultry plant “Holly Wood Farm.” 

The second step was the purchase of one hundred 
White Plymouth Rock Pullets, which Sam obtained 
from a nearby farmer who had raised them for 
market, at forty cents each. In addition to these 
pullets he had purchased from a breeder of some 
prominence a male bird for breeding purposes for 
which he “squandered,” as Uncle Jed said, the sum 
of ten dollars. Sam figured that in carrying his 
flock from September ist to the following June would 
require the sum of eighty dollars for feed, or at the 
rate of eighty cents per bird for the period of ten 
months. In purchasing feed, Sam had recourse to 
the well stocked granaries of the farmers living near 
Fairview, and by mixing the grains which he 


26 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


purchased according to his prepared formulas he had 
as near as it was possible to obtain a perfectly bal- 
anced ration for his poultry at a saving of thirty- 
three and one third per cent, as compared with the 
prices quoted by the local feed men. Sam pointed 
out this fact to Uncle Jed with much elation, at the 
same time prophesying the wonderful things he was 
going to do. 

“Sam,” said Uncle Jed, as the embryo poultry 
raiser waxed eloquent over the future, “I don’t want 
to say this in a discouragin’ way, but your scheme 
reminds me so much of that air feller what come 
out here from the city onct on a time and told all 
us farmer folks ez haow he wuz goin’ to corner the 
market on the milk they wuz a-shippin’ to New York. 

“He was a durned slick cuss, I kin tell you. The 
mornin’ he got off the way frate ’baout four fifths 
of the populashun of Fairview was in front of Bill 
Higginses store a-waitin’ for Zeke Skinner to git 
back from the postoffice with the mail from the 
mornin’ train, when along cum this air city chap. 

“It wuz along in the fall of the year, but they 
wuz’nt enybody ’round this place ez had thought of 
wearin’ a muffler or ear lappers. Well, the fust 
thing this city chap done wuz to throw back the lappel 
of his overcoat, and I seen at a glance ez haow it 
wuz all lined with muskrat hides. Corse, this showin’ 
off wuz jist to impress these fellers with the impor- 
tance of the city chap and kind of git ’em prepared 
for what wuz a-comin’. 

“With the chirpest ‘Good mornin’!’ that you ever 
heard, this feller greeted the populace of Fairview. 
Sed ez haow he’d understood for a long time that we 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 27 

wuz authorities on the producin’ of milk; that we 
wuz the most up-to-date community he’d struck in 
a long time, and whatever wan’t known in Fairview 
by the folks ez lived in Fairview wan’t wuth knowin’ 
’tall. Sed ez haow he wuz the ‘field representative 
uv one of the biggest syndikates ever organized,’ 
and that the aforesaid syndikatewas makin’ arrange- 
ments through its field officers to buy up all the milk 
ez wuz bein’ produced between this p’int and New 
York City; lay a pipe line parallel with that of the 
Standard Oil Company and simply run the milk 
rite through to New York City by pipe. Sed ez haow 
for the purpose of lettin’ the farmers in on the ‘ground 
floor’ he was ’round tellin’ them about the scheme, so 
if they wanted to trade in their cows and farms, 
givin’ a clear title to the corporation and takin’ stock 
in the new concern therefor, they could do so. 

“He wuz such a soshabul cuss and had such 
takin’ ways with him that he got the ice broke in 
good shape. Some of the fellers, however, wuz a 
little suspishus. I ’member old Zeke spoke up and 
says, “Why, Mister, that air milk wouldn’t be no 
good in New York cause it would be full of miker- 
obes.’ The smile with which this air city feller greeted 
the remark of Zeke was simply scintillatin’. 

“ ‘Mikerobes,’ sez he, ‘why a mikerobe to this 
heer syndikate aint so much ez a ten-cent shin plaster 
would be to Mr. Rokyfeller, and besides that’s all 
bin pervided for. You, see, every so many miles 
we have an inspector located right on the pipe line. 
He has a powerful spy glass, and as the milk flows 
along in a peecful way, down to the consumer, he 
looks right into the pipe. Now, if he discovers a 


28 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


mikerobe tryin’ to git a free ride to the city he jist 
touches a trigger and down the line ’baout a mile 
and a half cums up a red flag. Accordin’ to the 
rules of the sindykate, when this heer mikerobe gits 
down where this red flag is it’s his duty to lay rite 
down and die. If he don’t, he’s switched off" into a 
side-track, sent to the cooler for thirty days and 
then made into Rokyfort cheese.’ 

“The only reply that Zeke made to this remark 
of the ‘field representative’ was a look, and I gess 
mebbe the feller knowed what Zeke ment by the 
look. 

“Then he went on to tell ez haow they wuz makin’ 
plans to buy up fifty thousand acres of land, twenty 
thousand cows, build barns and houses for their 
hired men, use electric milkin’ machines, put up 
big factories and creameries for usin’ up the surplus 
milk, and I don’t know what all. Of all the durned 
schemes I ever heard of, this one sartinly was the 
durnedest. 

“I heard es haow some time arterwards this grate 
big sindykate had bought eighteen acres of land in 
Warren township, for which they had given back a 
mortgage for the full purchase price. That’s ez fur 
ez they ever got in cornerin’ the milk market. 

“Naow then, Sam, I’m givin’ you credit for a lot 
of good judgment. You’re a Willard, and I believe 
you aint afraid of work. I made up my mind, how- 
ever, ez haow this here poultry bizness is a real biz- 
ness, like any other bisness. I’m inclined to think 
that mebbe if you’ve got a purty good knowledge uv 
what you want to do, start out to do it in the right 
way, treatin’ everybody ez what does bizness with 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


29 


you by the ‘golden rule/ you may in time have a 
balance in the First National Bank, like your Uncle 
Jed, and a few mortgages ’round the country drawin’ 
interest. 

“Old Cal Stoddard rit a poem one time what jist 
’bout teches your case, which reads as follows: 

“ Jedge Curtis uster say ter me, good many years ago; 

Boy, when yer git to peddlin’, don’t forgit to peddle slow, 

Ther thing what’s caused more human failures, in ther 60 years 
jist past, 

Wuz fellers a-startin’ out in life, and a-tryin’ to peddle fast. 

By “peddlin’,” I don’t mean. Sonny, that you’ve got ter take a 
pack. 

Filled with s’penders and bandanners, and then strap it to your 
back. 

And plod along ther dusty rode, till yer throte’s all parched and 
dry. 

So dog-gone tired you feel ez if you c’uld lay rite down and die. 

No, the “peddlin’ ” I refer to. Son, is the bizness that you choose 

With which to aim your daily bred; and yer bound to win or 
loose, 

Jist accordin’ ez haow yer peddle, and ther die’ll be alius cast. 

Accordin’ to whether yer peddle slow, or whether yer peddle fast. 

Mebby you’ll git to sellin’ groserys; mebbe you’ll go to raisin’ wheat, 

Mebby you’ll larn to preach ther gospel, and ter guide ther sin- 
ners’ feet. 

But if yer git to sellin’ halloes fur them ez wears ther golden crown. 
Don’t try to corner ther market. Son, nor mark yer prices down. 

If ther Lord should make a lawyer of you, (I hope ther Lord He 
don’t). 

Don’t think ez folks’ll buy up all you’ve got; believe me. Son, 
they won’t. 

Mebby if you’re willin’ to start the way partaters start to grow. 

In a long, long time you’ll have sum vine, pervidin’ you peddle 
slow. 


30 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


Thay’s fellers, I s’pose — ez the sayin’ goes — ez gits rich mity quick, 
Uv corse sich fellers are peddlin’ fast, and a-goin’ a'awful lick. 

But somehow or nuther I’ve noticed es haow sich fellers never last, 
Cuz they’d killed ther boss, called “Honesty,” by a-tryin’ to 
peddle fast. 

It don’t make any difference. Son, whether the rodes is good or bad. 
Whether the world is a-smilin’ sweetly, or whether she’s sorrow- 
ful and sad, 

Thay’s jist wun boss to use in peddlin’, — “Old Honesty’s” his 
name — 

And he’ll pull you through ther mire uv doubt, ter ther mountain 
top of fame. 

So hitch “Honesty” to your waggin, put shoes of “Industry” on 
his feet. 

Feed him “Characker” and “Integrity,” give him all ez he can 
eat. 

Bed him down with “Brotherly Feelin,” Lad, for every man you 
know. 

Start out in ther mornin’ uv life. My Boy, and larn to peddle 
slow. 


“I aint a-sayin’ all these things to you, Sam, to 
discourage you, but for the purpose of makin’ you 
think twice afore you invest a dollar so ez to be sure, 
if such things is possible, you can see that dollar 
cornin’ back to you leadin’ two other dollars by the 
hand and a-walkin’ rite up to your wallet and sayin’, 
‘This is your jump-off place, get it.’ ” 

“Well,” said Sam, “you surely have set me think- 
ing, and I will keep thinking just as earnestly as I 
have been dreaming, and I will hope with you that 
some day your nephew will have a comfortable nest 
egg laid away, and that that nest egg shall be a golden 
egg and the result of my poultry venture.” 


CHAPTER V. 


E very inhabitant of Fairview who was old 
enough to remember the year of the Cen- 
tennial Celebration could recall with the great- 
est feelings of pride the visit of the Governor of the 
State of Vermont to the County Fair that year. It 
was coupled with greater pomp than usually attached 
to such formal visits of the State’s Chief Executive, 
in that upon this particular occasion he was accom- 
panied by his military staff. 

As an expression of their appreciation for this 
especial distinction, the Directors of the Agricultural 
Association had planned a grand reception for the 
Governor, which was to be concluded with a sump- 
tuous banquet and a presentation to their honored 
guest, in the form of a beautifully designed pedestal, 
made from the marble for which the quarries in and 
about Fairview were noted. 

The particular person selected to make this pres- 
entation was Lucy Stoner, the handsome little 
daughter of Squire Stoner. The blue eyes and be- 
witching ways of Lucy were the talk of the county’s 
younger element, and had been for ten years prior 
to this occasion. There were other girls of Lucy’s 
age who came upon the scene from time to time, but 
the acknowledged favorite was ever the light-hearted 
and handsome Lucy. 

At that time Jed Peters was the only son of Heze- 
kiah Peters, a plain, well-to-do farmer. From child- 
hood, Jed and Lucy had attended the same school 
and participated in the social festivities of the village 
until Lucy was sent to a young ladies’ seminary at 


32 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


Rutland. Whenever the sleek-coated bay Morgan 
mare, the pride of Jed’s father, was seen on Sunday 
afternoons hitched to the shining sidebar runabout — 
bought especially to try out the speed of the high- 
bred mare — the occupants of the buggy were in- 
variably Jed and Lucy. 

When Lucy came back from her first year at school 
it was Jed who met her at the station and drove her 
up to the Stoner home, receiving as his compensation 
a particularly bewitching smile from Lucy and a 
promise that he might come up to see her again the 
following Sunday. 

Every quilting bee that had been held for a year 
back had had these two young people as the topic 
of conversation at some time during the session. 
Now that Lucy had come home to spend her vaca- 
tion the wagging tongues were kept busier than before. 

“Seems to me that air Lucy Stoner’s bin a-takin’ 
on too many airs since she’s bin a-goin’ to that air 
seminary,” said one. 

“Yes, I s’pose ez haow her edicashun will be the 
spoilin’ of her, same ez ’twas of Asa Cummin’s gal.” 

“Thay aint no tellin’ what noshuns a gal like that 
will git into her head. Like’s not, next thing we hear, 
she’ll be a-throwin’ over Jed Peters for some good- 
for-nothin’ feller from the city,” chimed in a third. 

It was the fall following Lucy’s second year at 
Rutland that she was selected by the Fair Managers 
to present the marble pedestal to the Governor. 

The adjutant on the Governor’s staff upon this 
occasion was Col. Edward Rollinson, of the National 
Guard, Company J. He was a polished military 
man, from the ground up, with an erect carriage and 


33 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 

one of those romantic temperaments that found food 
to feed upon in every pretty pair of eyes that admired 
the tinsel of his military uniform. 

At the County Fair ceremonies he met Lucy 
Stoner. He was gallant, handsome, with no odor of 
the stable upon his clothes. He was polished and, 
in fact, met all the requirements of a man to be ad- 
mired and sought after, according to the picture 
which had been presented to Lucy by the so-called 
teachers employed in the young ladies’ seminary of 
which she had been an attendant for two years. 

During the presentation it was the handsome adju- 
tant who stood by her side and who performed the 
laborious act of passing the marble pedestal, upon 
which the white hand of Lucy Stoner rested, to the 
Governor of the State. Several of Fairview’s very 
observing populace always claimed that “that air 
recepshun bizness wuz the undoin’ of Lucy Stoner’s 
love for Jed Peters,” and subsequent events proved 
the wisdom of their prophecy in this direction. 

It was observed that when Lucy came home for 
her holiday vacation, the third term. Col. Rollinson 
came down to spend a few days on the farm. And 
it was Col. Rollinson who furnished the costume 
and acted the part of Santa Claus at the Christmas 
tree doings down at the Baptist Church. From that 
time on, the Morgan mare was never seen stepping 
along the graveled roads in and around Fairview, 
drawing Jed and Lucy. 

Soon after her return to Rutland from her Christ- 
mas visit it was rumored about the village that the 
expected marriage of these two people — which had 
been for many years a foregone conclusion — would 


34 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


never take place, and it was soon after that the en- 
gagement of Lucy Stoner to Col. Rollinson was an- 
nounced in the Fairview Gazette. 

These same keenly observing people noticed that 
Jed stayed around home more closely than before; 
that he was not seen down at the village postoffice 
when the mail was distributed every evening, and a 
sort of sober sadness became apparent in Jed’s every- 
day demeanor which could only be traced to the 
fact of Lucy’s engagement to the gallant adjutant 
on the Governor’s staff. 

The following fall, Jed’s father, who had been a 
veteran of the Civil War, died as a result of certain 
ailments contracted while in the service of his coun- 
try and the care of an invalid mother devolved 
thenceforth upon Jed, h«s father’s only son. 

In the month of September, ’77, the Stoner man- 
sion was the scene of the most brilliant wedding 
festivities that had ever been witnessed in this little 
New England town. The “best man” and ushers 
were fellow-officers of Col. Rollinson, and the “maids 
of honor” were friends of Lucy, whom she had met 
while attending school at Rutland. 

After the wedding tour, which occupied a period 
of three or four weeks, the young couple returned 
to the Stoner mansion and took up their residence 
at Fairview. Squire Stoner insisting that as Lucy 
was his only daughter he was only too glad to wel- 
come as his son the man who had won her love and 
had taken her to be his wife. 

It is not the purpose of this little story to dwell 
upon the character of Col. Rollinson or to criticize 
the choice of Lucy Stoner in the plighting of her 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


35 


faith to this man from the city. It is sufficient to say 
that city life had left its marks upon Col. Rollinson, 
as it usually does upon all young men surrounded by 
its health and character-destroying environments, 
and that the first sad awakening of Lucy Stoner was 
when the man of her choice celebrated the birth of 
their first child by a drunken debauch extending 
over a period of ten days. 

With the strong pilgrim characteristics of the 
Stoner family this humiliation was no less great 
because borne silently. Whether or not it was be- 
cause of thoughts of other days that came to Lucy 
Rollinson, whether because of a love for earlier 
associations which still lingered within her heart, 
when a name was selected for this little youngster 
who had come into her life the one chosen and under 
which the little one was christened was Katherine 
Rollinson. This was Jed’s mother’s name. 

Before Kitty had arrived at the age of five years 
Grandpa and Grandma Stoner had both been laid 
away in the little churchyard just south of the vil- 
lage, and during all the years that intervened from 
that time to the time that Kitty Rollinson became 
the sweetheart of Sam Willard, Jed Peters had 
watched her grow, with an interest so deep, so gen- 
uine and so earnest as to prove beyond a perad- 
venture the deep-seated love which he had felt for 
her mother in the days that had long since passed. 

Whenever he met Kitty’s father the greeting was 
always of the most formal, and while no word was 
ever passed between Col. Rollinson, the military 
man, and Jed Peters, the plain farmer of Fairview, 
each knew what was in the other’s mind, and a 
barrier was always present between them. 


36 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


In the years which intervened from the death of 
Squire Stoner to the time that this little story has 
its inception no word had ever passed between Lucy 
and Jed Peters, of the past, and yet, whenever they 
met, there was a kindly light ever present in the eyes 
of the village favorite of years ago, occasioned, no 
doubt, by recollections of other days. Lucy Rollinson 
had been exceedingly solicitous that, as her little 
daughter had reached the age of understanding, 
she should know and appreciate the grand qualities 
of honest Jed Peters and that she should grow to 
look upon him and love him as one of God’s real 
creations. 

So as Uncle Jed walked down the lane at the Wil- 
lard homestead that Sunday afternoon, and thought 
for a few moments in silence before giving Sam an 
answer to his request for a loan, it is not improbable 
that Uncle Jed Peters had in mind that Sabbath 
day, recollections of thirty years before, when Kitty 
Rollinson’s mother was all the world to him, and 
that the future of her child was a matter of deepest 
consideration to him upon this occasion. 


CHAPTER VI. 


T he morning of September ist found Sam 
Willard with notebook in hand making a care- 
ful survey of the poultry buildings on the 
Kendall farm, of which he was now the proprietor, 
and making his calculations for the receiving and 
housing of his one hundred pullets. 

There were some theories advanced by poultry 
experts with which Sam did not agree. It had been 
claimed that, for hens in confinement, *‘not less 
than six square feet of floor space should be allowed.” 
Thus, a building twelve feet wide and fifty feet long, 
with six hundred feet of floor space, would accommo- 
date only one hundred laying hens. To do this suc- 
cessfully it was claimed that such a house should be 
divided into five pens, each to contain twenty birds. 
Sam’s theory was that if he should put two hundred 
birds into such a house without partitions that each 
hen would have the whole six hundred feet of floor 
space in which to exercise, instead of the one hun- 
dred and twenty feet provided by the pen, ten feet 
by twelve feet. 

His success proved this theory to be correct and 
much more economical. Hence, he immediately 
began a “gum shoe” hunt for another hundred 
pullets. The words “gum shoe” are advisedly used, 
for as soon as it became noised about that Sam was 
embarking in the poultry business the price of poul- 
try in and around Fairview began to “look up.” 

In the course of a few days Sam secured his addi- 
tional hundred pullets, and before the fifteenth of 
the month had them all comfortably housed. He 


38 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


had used much caution in securing April-hatched 
chicks, saying that he wanted them to begin laying 
by November ist. 

How keenly he watched those pullets from day to 
day can scarcely be described. They were fed with 
a scrupulous regularity, and a keen observance of 
every detail necessary to insure growth and develop- 
ment. As the days passed, Sam began to notice that 
many of his pullets were beginning to show signs 
of being “in bloom.” October 15th, as he went the 
rounds for night, the first egg was found. With 
what elation can be better imagined than described. 
“Pullets that are too fat will not lay.” Sam remem- 
bered this admonition of the poultry wiseacres, so 
often told in the “Poultry Press,” but argued that 
a hen in order to lay must he in prime condition. 

“Eggs must be the result of judicious feeding of 
healthy hens,” said he, and he was right. 

A hen is simply an egg machine. Like an engine 
she requires “fuel” to make her produce “steam.” 
Just enough feed to sustain and feed the hen would 
not be sufficient to enable her to produce eggs. There 
must be enough to supply the requirements of the 
body and to furnish the necessary elernents for the 
formation of the egg. A chemical analysis of the egg 
showed the elements of which it was constituted. 
A careful study of the various food products showed 
what feeds were necessary to furnish those elements. 
Sam knew it by heart. Oct. i6-no eggs; Oct. 17-3 
^ggs; Oct. 18-2 eggs; Oct. 19-6 eggs; Oct. 20-8 
eggs; Oct. 21-6 eggs; Oct. 22-5 eggs; Oct. 23-11 
eggs; Oct. 24-9 eggs; Oct. 25-11 eggs; Oct. 26-16 
eggs; Oct. 27-18 eggs; Oct. 28-15 eggs; Oct. 29-18 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


39 


eggs; Oct. 30-22 eggs; Oct. 31-25 eggs. Total eggs 
produced in October, 19.., 176; which equals four- 
teen dozen and eight eggs. 

The above was taken from the “Hollywood Farm 
Egg Record*’ for the month of October. 

The evenings were beginning to be cool, presaging 
the colder weather that was soon coming. To secure 
winter eggs requires getting the pullets busy in Octo- 
ber and keeping them going. If they stop or “go 
back,” good-bye eggs until the following spring. 

Beginning with November, Sam seemed to re- 
double his attention to the details of feeding, and 
scrupulous cleanliness was everywhere observed. The 
close of the month showed 2,160 eggs produced, or 
exactly 180 dozen. 

Before the month was over, Sam was confronted 
with the proposition of finding a market for his eggs. 
His first inquiry was of Bill Higgins, the corner 
grocer, whose best offer was twenty-four cents per 
dozen in trade. Next, he communicated with the 
commission men of Rutland. There the offer was 
raised to twenty-eight cents. Sam figured out that 
the grocery keepers in the city must buy of the com- 
mission men, so his next inquiry was of them. They 
were willing to pay thirty cents. Why should he sell 
his product to Bill Higgins for twenty-four cents in 
trade when the city housekeeper was paying thirty- 
five cents And how could he get this trade .? 

Thinking these conditions over, Sam dropped into 
the leading hotel and inquired for the steward. He 
found this functionary most affable and anxious to 
talk over the egg market, the current price and the 
prospects for the future. Before he left this prominent 


40 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


hostlery he had made a contract with the steward 
for five cents per dozen more than the market 
price, with a minimum price of forty cents per dozen. 
This contract, of course, called for strictly fresh eggs, 
shipments to be made weekly, and as much oftener 
as a crate of thirty dozen was ready. 

As the train sped along that evening, taking Sam 
back to Fairview and all that the world held which 
was dear to him, keen observers could have noticed 
a look in his handsome eyes denoting a happiness 
that was glaringly genuine in its intensity. 

It was an hour past feeding time for the pullets 
when he arrived, and this was a most serious matter. 
Without waiting for the ’bus to take him up to the 
store, his quick, eager pace soon brought him to 
the farm. Hurriedly filling his feed pail with the 
choice, clean grain so relished by the laying pullets 
Sam opened the door leading into the alleyway to 
the big house. 

Kitty!” he exclaimed, “what under the sun are 
you doing up here.?” 

“Well, Sam, I’ve heard you say so often that 
regularity in feeding was so very important and, 
knowing that you could not get here until feeding 
time, I felt I must run over and feed, so the chicks 
would not be disappointed in being kept waiting for 
supper,” said Kitty with a roguish laugh. 

She was leaning against the partition between the 
scratching room and alleyway. The air was filled 
with dust from the clean clover litter into which the 
birds were scratching away for the kernels of corn, 
oats, wheat and buckwheat. There was the singing 
of healthy, happy hens, so pleasing to the lover of 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 41 

poultry, and the clear, cool evening air had, with 
the healthful exercise of the occasion, brought a 
crimson tint to her cheeks that Sam so loved to see. 
As he took those cheeks between the palms of his 
big, strong hands and placed a lover’s kiss upon her 
lips the evening shadows became suddenly deepened 
by the appearance of a portly figure in the doorway. 
It was Uncle Jed. 

“S’pose ez haow that’s one of them air new fangled 
idees you’ve got ’bout takin’ care of hens, ain’t it?” 
inquired Uncle Jed, with his big, humorous smile. 

“No, Uncle,” answered Sam, “I was just paying 
off my hired help for the day and, if you hadn’t 
happened around. I’m inclined to think that she 
would have been paid right then and there for several 
weeks in advance.” 

“Well, thay’s a feller in front of the house ez sez 
he’s got sumpthin’ on his waggin what belongs to 
Mr. and Mrs. Sam Willard. If you know of enny 
one of that name ’round these diggin’s, mebby ez 
haow you’d better have a talk with him.” 

As the trio approached the house it was apparent 
that the “waggin” was there, and a goodly sized 
one it was. Investigation proved it to be loaded with 
furniture, from kitchen utensils to a fine upright 
piano, and tied to the leg of the dining-room table 
was a card which read: 

“Uncle Jed to Kitty and Sam, being a bachelor’s 
tribute to the divinity of love, and wishing for you 
both that sublime happiness through life, of which 
love is the only source.” 

There was a huskiness in Sam’s voice. There were 
tears in Kitty’s eyes. The driver of the “waggin” 


42 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


was suspiciously blowing his nose, as he fussed with 
the collar of the off horse, while Uncle Jed himself 
was swallowing away at his Adam’s apple as though 
it were trying to jump down his throat and play 
tag with his appendix. 

It was well past nine o’clock before either one 
thought of supper, but the shades of night never fell 
upon a greater aggregation of happiness than was 
quartered under the roof of Sam Willard’s future 
home, on this beautiful November evening. 

It was not until they had reached the Rollinson 
home and partaken of a specially prepared supper 
that Sam found time to show Kitty his contract for 
eggs and to discuss with her the future. 


CHAPTER VII. 


T he month of November was indeed a busy 
one. The splendid care given the pullets and 
a constant regard for details had caused them 
to shell out the eggs at a merry rate. 

November loth was the wedding day. There was 
no display. A few real friends, a plain but sumptuous 
wedding supper, and a wedding trip postponed. They 
had both agreed that it would be unwise at this 
particular time to take any chances with strange 
hands attending the flock of pullets, so the trip was 
deferred. Housekeeping began at once and, as the 
young people sat down to breakfast the following 
morning, a plate and chair were placed for Uncle 
Jed, who was there to fill it. As he was enjoying a 
cup of fine coffee and one of those luscious dough- 
nuts, for the making of which Kitty’s mother had 
long been noted. Uncle Jed said, “Sam, I don’t like 
the idee of your usin’ a wheelbarrow for your egg 
deliveries, so I concluded to let you have old Jim, 
and the hired man’ll bring down some hay and oats 
this arternoon.” 

“Seems as though you were always doing for us. 
Uncle Jed,” said Kitty, “and how can we ever hope 
to repay the kindness.?” > 

“Well, I’ve kept purty close tabs on that air 
account, and I find thay’s items on the credit side 
datin’ back to a time afore you wuz born. I’ll have 
to keep purty durn bizzy fer a good many years afore 
I can get the credits all wiped off, so don’t you be 
a-talkin’ ’bout owin’ me, cuz ’taint so.” 


44 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


The enthusiasm of Sam in his new venture was 
unconsciously becoming contagious. While Uncle 
Jed had always looked upon hens as a necessary 
nuisance, he was beginning to notice that a crate of 
eggs going to market every few days meant money, 
and money meant a whole lot, in a way. He was fre- 
quently found asking Sam questions about mating 
and feeding, and the more he learned the more 
interested he became. Kitty, too, found time for 
studying the habits of the fowls and the intricacies 
of poultry keeping. 

The thirty days of November showed 2,552 eggs 
produced, or 212 dozen and 8 over. From these, Sam 
had shipped seven cases, or 210 dozen, for which he 
received $88.20, or an average of forty-two cents 
per dozen. The money received up to November ist 
had been used for feed, nails, wire and such inciden- 
tals as were required to fix up the plant, so Sam 
concluded to start his poultry year from November 
1st. The 1st of December found him mating up his 
breeding pens, and it also witnessed the installation 
of two three hundred and sixty egg incubators and 
six brooders. 

As the purpose of this book is to show facts, not 
fancies, we will not tire our readers with the details 
of those winter days, attention to this flock of Ply- 
mouth Rock Pullets, or attendant upon the hatching 
period of spring. The figures will all be given in a 
subsequent chapter under proper heading. 

No winter of Sam Willard’s life had ever passed 
so quickly or so pleasantly. The holidays came and 
passed, Easter came, and every day found its prob- 
lems, perplexities and pleasures. 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


45 


An advertisement was inserted in two poultry 
papers, offering eggs for sale for hatching. The 
incubators made quite a hole in the shipment of eggs 
to the city, yet Sam managed to keep up the one crate 
per week, and the increase in price during December, 
January and February, together with the sales of 
eggs for hatching at ^^3.00 per setting, increased 
rather than decreased his monthly income. 

During those winter evenings, as the bright coal 
fires of the Willard cottage bade defiance to the cold 
winds of those New England hills, many a “chick 
was counted before it was hatched.^’ It was not 
long before a draft was made on Uncle Jed’s straw 
stack for litter and, in return for the straw, Sam 
sent back a load of rich fertilizer for the farm. 

“Gosh! Sam,” often remarked Uncle Jed, “if I 
ever seen a feller ez wuz etarnally at it, you’re that 
chap.” 

“It’s faithfulness to details that counts in this 
business. Uncle Jed and, I believe, to a greater degree 
than any other I know of. Neglect of the most trifling 
character is immediately noticed in the results. You 
might furnish grain, grit and green stuff a plenty, but 
without the oyster shell for lime to make shells there’s 
no eggs. 

“You have probably never stopped to think that 
eggs are almost seventy per cent water, have you } 
All the care that one could possibly bestow upon 
the flock would be unavailing without water. The 
albumen of the egg spells ‘protein’ in chemistry. 
Without foods containing this element you are fail- 
ing to provide your pullets with the fuel required for 
steam. 


46 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


“The fuel for fat — or heat — is corn. This is a carbo- 
hydrate and produces the heat for the hens’ bodily 
requirements. It is in knowing these things and in 
supplying them in proper amounts and at proper 
times that makes for a profitable return for your 
labors. These, of course, must all be coupled with 
cleanliness of the highest order. It is cleanliness 
more than any other one thing that spells success 
instead of failure. So that’s why, as you say, T am 
ever and eternally on the job.’ ” 

“S’pose you’re willin’ to admit ez haow Kitty’s 
cookin’ has got sumpthin’ to do with that layer of 
fat you’ve been a-puttin’ on your ribs, won’t you 
asked Uncle Jed by way of changing the subject. 

“Yes, in a way. I’m bound to confess that’s true, 
but let me tell you. Uncle Jed, that in my judgment 
the finest fodder ever placed before a man would 
always keep him as thin as a rail, unless there was 
peace of mindy contentment and love all tucked away 
under his hide, somewhere,” Sam answered. 

“There’s no liver regulator ever discovered that 
equals physical exercise in the open air. There’s no 
tonic like the love of a good woman, and when your 
heart is always beating time to kindly thoughts and 
loving impulses your circulation is bound to be 
filled with the bright red corpuscles of health and 
happiness.” 

“Gee whizz! I never knowed you had sich a 
‘grist of gab,’ ez the feller sez. A long ways back 
on your mother’s side of the house wuz a Baptist 
preacher, and on the Willard side — so I’ve been 
told — wuz a fish peddler. Thay wuz both good 
talkers, but sellin’ hell-fire and damnation didn’t 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


47 


pay enny better than the fish bizness, and inside 
family history sez thay both got into polyticks and 
wuz lost. Mebby ez haow some of that air orytorical 
brilliancy of your forbears wuz handed down, but 
keep it in the chicken bizness, Sam, and I gess you’re 
safe.” 

“All right. Uncle Jed. I’ll keep my heart in at 
the same time, and perhaps I’ll be both safe and 
successful,” said Sam, each enjoying a hearty laugh. 

May 1st, of the year following the launching of 
the “Golden Egg” enterprise, marked the first six 
months of business. A careful inventory was taken, 
a trial balance was struck, and the account showed 
as follows: 

First Six Months’ Statement Holly Wood Farm. 


Dr. 


Cr. 

$ 85.00 

To purchase 200 B. R. Pullets 


20.00 

To 2 male birds for breeding 


102.35 

Feed for laying hens 


18.20 

Feed for young chicks 

By Eggs Sold 



Nov., 210 doz. at 42c. 

$ 88.20 


Dec., 240 “ “ 50c. 

120.00 


Jan., 210 » “55C. 

115.50 


Feb., 180 “ “ 55c. 

99.00 


Mar., 210 “ “ 50c. 

105.00 


Apr., 270 “ “ 45c. 

No account of eggs used for family 

121 .50 


Value of 1,960 eggs used in incubators 

65.20 

$ 7-50 

To oil used in running incubators 


Value of old stock, 80c. each hen 

160.00 


Value of male birds J cost. 

10.00 


1,311 young chicks on hand not to 
valued until inventory Nov. ist. 

be 

$233 


^^884 • 40 

651 -35 

Profit for labor 


;^ 884.40 


84 settings of eggs sold for hatching in 
inventory 

Nov. 


48 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


Of this gross profit, ;^65.oo was increase in value 
of stock, and $586.35 was profit on eggs from two 
hundred hens, or $2.93 per hen for six months. All 
incubators and brooders were paid for out of “capi- 
tal account” and, as the machines represented the 
money invested, there was practically no loss to this 
account for the first year. In other words, Sam 
Willard had received for his first six months’ labor 
$651.35 in cash and, besides, he had 1,311 early- 
hatched chicks, the pullets of which would become 
his money-makers for the coming year. 

May was the banner egg month; as the record 
showed 4,512 eggs from 188 hens, 12 hens being 
used for hatching some special White Orpington eggs 
for fancy. The White Orpingtons had recently come 
into much prominence by reason of the sale of a 
breeding pen to a noted foreigner for the fabulous 
sum of $7,500.00. While Holly Wood Farm made 
a specialty of egg production as the safest and surest 
way of getting results, the possibilities of the fancy 
end of the business had become apparent. 

June marked a slight slowing up in egg production, 
and by July ist a goodly number of the layers were 
in moult. Through July and August the greatest 
attention was given to feeding, so as to hurry along 
the moult of the old birds and grow the youngsters. 
When the young birds were ten weeks old, the pul- 
lets were separated from the cockerels, the former fed 
for development as egg producers, the latter for fat 
production. 

The record of eggs for the last six months of the 
first year was as follows: 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 49 


May, 

eggs 

sold 

360 

doz. at 40c. 


$140.00 

June, 

<< 

if 

270 

“ “ 40c. 


108.00 

July, 

ti 

it 

150 

“ “ 40c. 


60.00 

Aug., 

t4 

if 

120 

“ “ 45e. 


54.00 

Sept., 

H 

ft 

180 

“ “ 45e- 


81 .00 

Oct., 

It 

tf 

240 

“ “ 45 c- 

Total 

108.00 

$555.00 

Of the October 

shipment sixty dozen were 

pullets’ 


eggs, which should be deducted from the total amount 
received in order that we may arrive at the net profit 
of the two hundred hens for the first year. Sixty 
dozen at 45c. equals $2^.00. Deduct this amount 
from $S 55 ’ 5 ^- It leaves the amount to be credited 
to the hens for eggs ;^528.oo. Add to this 165 hens 
sold November 3d, at 70c., ;^i 15.50; 528 cockerels 
at 1 8c. per lb., ^^343. 20; 702 pullets, value 80c. each, 
j?556i.6o; total, $1,549.30. Paid for feed and other 
incidental expenses $694.25; profit for labor, $855.05. 
Total amount of net profit for first year, $1,506.40. 

The second year’s account stood as follows, be- 


ginning 

November i, 190-: 


Dr. 


Cr. 

$ 561.60 

To 702 pullets at 80c. each 


16.00 

To 32 old hens at 50c. each 


42.00 

To 70 cockerels, some fine ones, at 60c. 
each 


1,424.91 

165.00 

Paid for feed 


Paid for help 


18.40 

Oil for incubators 


24.00 

Repairs 

By eggs sold, 8,885 average price 

73^-70 


for year, 42c. 


194 settings at $3.00 per setting 

582.00 


By 18 cockerels, average $4.00 each 

72.00 


By 40 cockerels, average $2.50 each 

100.00 

$2,248.91 


$4,485.70 


50 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


1^2,248.91 Brought forward. 


Dr. 


Cr. 

$4,485.70 


Balance cockerels eaten and exchanged, 
no account 


Value 2,142 young birds hatched and 
raised, 70c. each 


1,490.40 


Sold Nov. loth, 660 old hens at 60c. each 396.00 
No account of cock birds or old stock kept 


for breeders 


$2,248.91 


$6,381 . 10 


4,132.19 Profit for labor 
$6,381 .10 

In other words, with 702 pullets and 32 old hens, 
Sam Willard cleared the neat little sum of ;^4,i32.i9 
the second year. 

There were other credits, called health, content- 
ment, home and happiness, which the writer has not 
enumerated, but which Sam figured as the most 
valuable part of his profit account. With the increase 
in the number of fowls the average profit per hen 
was slightly decreased. This is invariably true in 
the management of all poultry concerns and, as the 
flock increases, the necessity for vigilance also in- 
creases. It may be taken as a well established fact 
that the price of success in poultry keeping is, first 
and alwaysy eternal vigilance. 

Reader, does it pay Do you know of any occu- 
pation which permits those engaged therein to live 
a life of independence, free from all restraint, and 
which is so pleasant and so productive I Do you 
know of any industry in which you can engage with 
so small a capital and, yet, which will, as a direct 
result of your own efforts if faithfully applied, give 
such splendid returns for your labor .? And these are 
facts, not fancies. 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 51 

There are published, perhaps, instances of greater 
profits, but the writer knows of none better upon 
which you can rely so absolutely and which you may 
follow as a guide in taking up this pleasurable occupa- 
tion than the figures submitted by this simple story. 

Starting with his two hundred pullets, Sam Willard 
has today about three thousand. The capital with 
which he started has been increased more than one 
hundredfold. The man who left the great metropolis 
because of the fact that the blue hills of his early 
home beckoned him to a better life is quoted in the 
commercial agencies of Dun and Bradstreet as 
worth ^75,000.00 — every dollar of which came from 
the pursuit of “The Golden Egg.” 

Each year found a steady increase in the number 
of birds kept on the place, which Sam and his wife 
had learned to call their home, until the limit of its 
capacity had been reached. There was no “spread- 
ing out,” which did not permit of his always 
taking control of the situation. It was Sam’s 
general oversight and supervision that was always 
given to the business and, as the years went on, 
much of the labor was delegated to young men, 
many of whom were graduates from the agri- 
cultural colleges, seeking the practical experience 
of a practical poultry farm. 

The Kendall property has long since passed from 
the Widow Kendall’s hands to Sam Willard and 
Kitty, his wife, by a warranty deed, and today Sam 
is reckoned with Uncle Jed as the holder and owner 
of many mortgages. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


T he incidents happening in the lives of the 
characters whom we have presented to our 
readers in this little story once more take us 
back to the County Fair. More than thirty years 
have elapsed since the presentation made to the 
State’s Chief Executive by Lucy Stoner. 

The Morgan mare, which in the years gone by had 
drawn Jed Peters and his sweetheart over and through 
the various thoroughfares surrounding the pretty ham- 
let of Fairview, had been laid to rest in the pasture 
lot where she had grazed for many summers. 
The strong love for the Morgan horse, which has 
never been eradicated from those staunch New 
Englanders, had a champion in the person of Colonel 
Rollinson, the father of Sam’s little wife. 

The Annual County Fair was again on. Exhibi- 
tion halls and fences, together with the stables for 
livestock had been repainted. Tents for the exhibi- 
tion of machinery were pitched. Flags were waving 
in the October sun, while the half-mile track, where 
the speedy trotters entertained the people, was as 
smooth as the proverbial billiard table. Many of 
the fast steppers of the country had been brought 
together to compete for the tempting purses. 

Col. Rollinson had never been interested in hens, 
but he did have a great love for a fine horse. This 
love for the horse seemed to be the only thing in 
nature that did appeal to him. A coldness had grown 
up between himself and wife since the marriage of 
their daughter, and the gulf which separated them 
grew wider as the years sped on. It was always with 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 53 

a cynical expression of doubt that he had discussed 
the affairs of Holly Wood Farm under the manage- 
ment of his son-in-law. It was always with a bored 
• expression that he listened to the simple story of 
Sam’s success. In all of his life he had not been entire- 
ly able to shake off the early influences of city life, 
and a cold indifference seemed at all times to exist 
in the heart and mind of Mr. Rollinson with respect 
to the people of Fairview and its affairs. 

This, perhaps, was no doubt due in a large degree 
to the difference in the early environments between 
this man of city propensities and the common people 
of the country. In many ways Col. Rollinson was 
a large-hearted man — ^generous, frank — and yet there 
was an indefinable something that ever estranged 
him from those with whom he came in contact. 

On the race program for the first day of the fair 
was a race for county horses. This race had been 
arranged primarily to the end that the stallion. King 
Morgan, owned by Col. Rollinson, might try con- 
clusions with Masterlode, son of that great Maine 
sire. Nelson, at one time champion trotting stallion 
of the world. The great son of Nelson was owned 
by one of Col. Rollinson’s friends, and both horses 
had been fitted specially for this occasion. 

As the horses appeared on the track upon this 
momentous occasion it was found that Col. Rollinson 
was in the sulky behind King Morgan, whose chest- 
nut coat in the afternoon sun shone like burnished 
gold. As he stepped past the grandstand with his 
stately stride and foam-flecked sides there was ap- 
plause from the Colonel’s friends and exclamations 
of admiration for the beautiful horse. 


54 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


In an automobile occupying a slight rise of ground 
in the center of the infield sat Mrs. Rollinson, Kitty 
and Sam. Kitty’s mother’s face wore a look of anxiety 
as she closely scanned the face of her husband and 
noted every nerve strained to its utmost tension as 
he gave King Morgan his final “warming up,” pre- 
paratory to the great race. 

“Sam,” said Kitty, her voice faltering as she spoke, 
“I feel that father is not in proper condition to drive 
the King today, and you know the doctor has advised 
against excitement in any form.” Sam had noticed 
the Colonel’s unsteadiness, and the thought had also 
come to him that there was something unusual about 
his manner, but as he turned to his wife he said in 
a reassuring voice “Oh! he’s all right, Kitty. Al- 
though slightly advanced in years he is still strong. 
The King is surely a man’s horse to handle today, 
isn’t he This remark was occasioned by the 
rearing and plunging of the noble brute, anxious 
for the fray. 

The second time down, the starting judge gave 
the word “Go.” The animals, each of which seemed 
to realize that this was the day of all days when a 
supreme effort was demanded of them, sped away 
like the wind. As they circled the half-mile oval for 
the first time a blanket would have covered both 
horses, so even was their speed. Around the first 
turn for the second time and into the back stretch 
they flew, like a pair of horses hitched to a single 
vehicle. Coming down the home stretch, the nostrils 
of each horse distended, their silken sides foam- 
flecked, every person in the grandstand upon his 
feet, each one shouting words of encouragement to 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 55 

his favorite, and on they came. The thunder of 
their hurried hoofbeats, the tense excitement of the 
moment, the playing of the band, the shouting of 
the drivers, the racing instinct flashing from the eyes 
of those noble steeds, presented a spectacle which 
words utterly fail to describe. 

Suddenly there was a lull in the applause. There 
was a blanching of faces and a convulsive clasping 
of hands. The beautiful King Morgan, in the lead, 
was seen to falter, stagger and fall. The silken 
jacket and cap of Col. Rollinson were seen for an 
instant in the air, and then a cloud of dust enveloped 
both driver and horse. An awful stillness settled 
upon the throng. 

In an instant willing hands were at the side of 
Col. Rollinson, and the first to reach the spot and 
to bear his body from the track was Uncle Jed. King 
Morgan and his owner had raced their last race. In 
an instant a pall seemed to hang upon the throng. 
Singly and in pairs they passed out of the grand- 
stand, and within an hour from the time that the judges 
had called the horses to the track a meeting of the 
directors had been called, and the County Fair at 
Warren had been declared postponed for one day, 
owing to the untimely and sorrowful death of their 
fellow townsman. Col. Rollinson. 


CHAPTER IX. 


O LD JASPER, the station agent, sat polishing 
the globe of his red lantern one evening in 
October, using for that purpose an 1894 copy 
of the Fair Haven Gazette. 

Bill Higgins, the grocery-store keeper, dropped in 
to see if the way-freight had left a box of plug tobacco 
for him, allowin’ ez haow he ’spected one.” 
“Hullo, Jap.” 

‘‘Hullo, Bill. Tryin’ to polish her up a little, I 
gess, aint you .?” 

“Wall, s’pose I be,” said Jap. “You know. Bill, 
they say when an old maid aint nothin’ to do, she 
knits. When I aint nothin’ to do, I clean my lanterns. 
S’pose you’ve been over to the fair this arternoon, 
aint you.?” inquired Jap. 

“Yes, Jap, I went over, but I didn’t go in. Had 
ye stopped to think ez haow it wuz jist ’baout a yeer 
ago ez Col. Rollinson wuz killed ?” 

“By Gosh! that’s so. Time keeps a-rollin’ right 
’round, don’t it. Bill ? Old Doc. Anderson’s gone. 
Parley Austin’s laid away, and I s’pose ez haow 
’twon’t be long before — ” 

“Hully Gee, Jap!” chimed in one of the village 
youngsters who had been playing “nip” around the 
corner of the station, “here comes the evenin’ ex- 
press and she’s a-stoppin’.” 

Old Jap was off his stool in an instant and out 
on the station platform. Sure enough, the express 
was slowing down and, as it came to a stop, a well 
dressed man alighted, looked around and, as the train 
again proceeded on its way, the stranger stepped up 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 57 

to old Jasper whose cap showed his authority and 
said, “Are you the stationmaster, sir?*’ 

“Don’t luk much like a hitchin’ post, do I,” re- 
plied old Jasper. 

“Well, hardly, but as I am a stranger to these 
parts I wanted to make sure I was addressing some- 
one in authority, so that my information would be 
authentic.” 

“Well, luk here, gess I aint got none of that air 
kind of informashun, but if thay’s enny thing about 
this here stashun ez you’re wantin’ to know ’bout, 
why, all ez thare is, I am.” Thus delivering himself. 
Uncle Jap drew himself up, expanded his chest and 
looked the part of high authority. 

“I wanted to ask,” said the stranger, “if there is 
a man living here, or near here, by the name of 
Willard— Samuel Willard ?” 

“Gess we call him Sam for short, and ez fer his 
livin’ ’round hear why thay wouldn’t be much of 
a burg here if it wa’nt for Sam Willard.” 

“Indeed, and will you be kind enough to direct 
me to his residence?” 

“Sartin. See them kids a-ridin’ Shetland ponies 
up the road there ? Well, them’s Sam’s hoys. Best 
durned boys in this whul place, too. Thay’re Wil- 
lards all over. You jist go up and ask — hold on, hold 
on, thare cums Sam now.” 

As old Jasper spoke, the Willard automobile came 
in sight with Sam at the wheel, and on the front seat 
beside him was Uncle Jed. With a wave of his cap 
old Jasper beckoned to Sam, and in a moment he 
was at the station. 


S8 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


“Sam, this heer stranger sez ez haow his — ” 

“Well, never mind what he says, Jasper. Hi, old 
pard, how do you do f Well, if this isn’t a happy 
surprise. How did you ever get away up here in 
Vermont, anyhow.?” asked Sam, shaking Hi’s hand 
as though he would never release it. 

“Why, you see, Sam, I got sort of curious to see 
if you were still smoking those * brown berries’ that 
used to bring those happy dreams to you and, as my 
vacation came in October this year, I concluded to 
come up and see you.” 

“Hi, my boy, those old ‘dreams’ have all become 
absolute realities, but come, get in, and we’ll talk 
it all over later. And, by the way. Hi, this is my 
Uncle Jed, of whom you have heard me speak so 
often. You are just in time to be in on a quiet little 
wedding which will take place this evening with 
Uncle Jed and Col. Rollinson’s widow as the parties 
in interest.” 

The trio went to the Willard home where a light 
supper was served, and then a few moments were 
given to a quiet smoke on the moonlit veranda, 
looking off over those dear old blue hills. 

Several shots were fired at Uncle Jed about the 
wedding, and finally Sam said, “Uncle Jed, I sup- 
pose you’re it tonight, aren’t you .?” 

“Well, yes,” replied Uncle Jed, “I s’pose ez haow 
that’s so. ’Corse I’m goin’ to be married, but I hope 
I’ll never be like that tramp what dropped in on 
Aunt Mandy Stoddard t’uther day.” 

“I hadn’t heard about that. Uncle, guess I’m not 
keeping in touch with current events. What’s the 
story .?” 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


59 


“Well, one mornin’ last spring, ez Aunt Mandy 
wuz a-diggin’ a few dandylion greens for dinner, a 
bedraggled lookin’ tramp appeared at the gardin 
gate. Takin’ off what wuz left of his Fedory hat 
he asked her for a bite to eat. 

Why, sartin,’ sez Aunt Mandy, a-straightenin’ up 
and a-startin’ for the woodshed door. Cornin’ out 
with a cuple of doughnuts and a peece of apple pie, 
she handed the plate to Mr. Tramp and said, ‘Poor 
man, I s’pose ez haow you’re a married man, ain’t 
you 

“With a look of anguish on his face and a tearful 
warble in his voice, he sez, ‘No, Madam, I ain’t 
married. That hunted expression you’ve probably 
noticed in my face is caused by bein’ chased by 
constables and hungry dawgs.’ 

“I’m a-hopin’, Sam, ez haow nobody’ll ever see 
sich an expression on your Uncle Jeddy’s counte- 
nance.” 

After chatting for a few moments the men drove 
over in Sam’s machine to the Rollinson homestead 
where Kitty was busy as a bee, assisting in the simple 
preparations for the nine-o’clock wedding. 

Her pleasure in meeting the old city friend of her 
husband knew no bounds, and the days spent at 
Hollywood Farm by Hi Edwards will live long in 
his memory. The day following his arrival was one 
of those perfect days that come in October, seemingly 
given as a parting suggestion of the summer days 
gone by. 

After dinner, the family, including the two boys, 
strolled out upon the spacious lawn to loaf for a while 
under the shade of the big elm trees which stood 


6o 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


as landmarks for home and happiness and, happy, 
indeed, they were. 

As the boys wandered away for a romp on the 
ponies, Sam told Hi of his success in following the 
“Golden Egg.” 

Here was his beautiful home, his granaries well 
filled with food for the flocks, thousands of choice 
specimens of high-grade poultry roaming the fields, 
the orchard well burdened with its luscious fruit, the 
wife of his choice and his dear boys, all of which 
combined spelled success in life in letters brilliant 
and big. In the beauties of his rural environment 
he had indeed found that health, happiness and home 
of which he had so often dreamed. 

“Possessing these. Hi,” said Sam, “a man goes 
forth to greet the day with feelings of love for his 
Maker and for mankind. Hatred, resentment, envy, 
those germs of discontentment and disease, find no 
foothold where happiness reigns supreme. Love for 
your work, knowing that you are not solely a con- 
sumer, but a producer, knowing that you are adding 
daily to the material welfare and well being of your 
fellow men is ever an incentive to righteousness such 
as makes for the betterment of the world. 

“During those years of servitude which I spent in 
New York — and God only knows how I ever en- 
dured them — those hills over yonder beckoned me 
to return. Something seemed to tell me of a better, 
sweeter life up here where God gives folks so much 
to make them happy. The call was something irre- 
sistible. You remember the night I left New York 
and the Big White Way and started back for Ver- 
mont.? That night I left my shackles in the little 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 6i 

hall-room which we called home. I promised you, 
if successful, I would tell the story to others, and Tve 
kept my word. I hope there are thousands of young 
men who today are receiving starvation wages who 
will hear this call. I hope that the same measure of 
success may come to them as has come to me. 
Should burdens be lifted, should homes, health and 
happiness be found, I trust that they in turn will tell 
their fellow men on the highway of life the blessings 
which they found in this simple story — ‘The Tale 
of the Golden Egg.”’ 




How To Do It 


If you have had no experience in the poultry busi- 
ness, start with a small flock and learn from observ- 
ation and a careful reading of the poultry publi- 
cations how to properly care for them. 

Treble the size of your flock the second year. 

Double the size of this flock the third year. 

Build inexpensive poultry houses, with open frontsy 
facing the south. 

Build them so that they will be always perfectly 
dry. 

In cold climates throw out a protection on the 
westerly side of the house which will protect the 
open front of your house from the cold, westerly 
winds of winter. 

If you wish to make a specialty of eggSy start with 
White Leghorns. 

If you wish a general-purpose fowl that will lay 
nearly as many eggs as the Leghorns and sell for 
twice as much in the open market when turned into 
meat, start with the White Plymouth Rocks, or any 
of the American varieties. 

If you wish to breed “ fancy stock ” and utility 
stock, select the variety for fancy which best pleases 
your fancy. 

Whitewash the inside of your poultry house and 
keep it scrupulously clean. 


64 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


Food makes energy. Energy expended fighting 
lice is lost power. Feed put into “lost power” is lost 
money; and lost money spells failure. 

Have your poultry house absolutely free from lice^ 
mites and vermin of all kinds. 

Keep eight to ten inches of clean straw on the floor 
of the poultry house, constantly, and keep it dry. 

Feed all hens in litter, and keep them everlast- 
ingly hustling. 

Keep oyster shells, grit and water constantly before 
your fowls. 

Have a feed trough in each pen in which to keep 
always before the fowls a dry mash feed, made accord- 
ing to the formula hereinafter given. 

Collect eggs twice a day, summer and winter. 

Make all shipments sufficiently often to insure the 
freshness of your product. 

Hatch your chicks early in the season. 

Raise as many by the old-fashioned way as you 
can. 

Use incubators when necessary. 

Study the poultry papers and the valuable cata- 
logues furnished by the various incubator and 
brooder makers. 

The Lord gave fowls a coat of feathers sufficient 
to protect them in the most rigorous climates if 
they are protected from draughts. So, don’t pamper 
them. 

Feed wholesome feed to healthy birds in clean 
quarters. This spells money. 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 65 

Every hen that you keep, if properly cared for, 
will return you a net profit of ^3.00 per year. 

As you learn the details of the poultry industry 
this profit can be more than doubled. 

Five hundred hens can be kept on five acres of 
land and show a net profit each year of from 1,000 
to $5,000. 

One man can easily care for five hundred fowls. 

Don’t try to get ahead too fast. Be patient and 
willing to learn. 

There is nothing intricate about the business, and 
there is no industry where the opportunities are so 
great, in the opinion of the writer, as the poultry 
industry. 

$600,000,000 are paid annually for poultry and 
poultry products. 

We have told you in this little book how to get 
your share of it. 

Don’t dream about it. Get it. 

The Publishers will answer any questions you may 
wish to ask, and cheerfully give you the benefit of 
their experience at any time. 


Feeding Formulas 


Scratching Feed. 

This is a whole grain ration to be fed to the fowls 
in the straw litter on the poultry house floor. Three 
to four quarts to every one hundred hens night and 
morning. The morning feed should be as soon as 
possible after the hens have left the roosts, because 
the exercise in working for their morning meal pro- 
motes circulation and tends to keep the flock in a 
healthy condition. The evening feed should be about 
an hour before birds go to roost. Scratching feed is 
prepared as follows: 

I bushel of whole wheat 

I bushel of cracked corn 

1 bushel of oats 

2 bushels of barley screenings 

^ bushel of buckwheat 

^ bushel of Kaffir corn 

A few sunflower seeds mixed with this scratching 
feed will be much relished by hens. Mix thoroughly 
before feeding. 


Mash Feed. 

This is a mixture of ground feeds, and to be kept 
constantly before the birds so that they may eat of 
it at will. It should be prepared as follows: 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


67 


100 pounds of wheat bran 
100 pounds of ground corn and oats 
100 pounds of flour middlings 
50 pounds of gluten feed 
100 pounds of alfalfa meal 
50 pounds of coarse beef scrap 

This should be thoroughly mixed and placed in 
the troughs as before stated. This mash feed may 
be slightly moistened if it is considered preferable 
to feed it that way. If green cut bone is furnished 
three times per week, the amount of beef scrap in 
the dry mash may be reduced or done away with 
entirely. 


Green Feed. 

During the winter months, when the fowls are 
confined and unable to get the grass which consti- 
tutes a large part of their daily diet in summer time, 
green foods must be furnished if the egg supply is 
to be kept up. Among this class of feeds may be 
used cabbages, mangels, sprouted oats, and either 
common clover or alfalfa clover steeped for two or 
three hours in hot water and permitted to stand 
until cool. When the clover is used in this way it 
should be mixed with the dry mash ration and fed 
in a crumbly condition in the troughs. 


Milk. 

As a food for growing young chicks, milk is a very 
valuable product. It may be fed either as skim milk 
or when it has become what is known as “clabbered.” 


68 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


It may also be used to moisten the dry mash ration 
with, and when milk is obtainable and is used for 
this purpose the beef scrap or meat ration may be 
largely reduced. 

Other formulas are to be found suggested by 
breeders of some prominence and experience, but 
these formulas have been proven at Holly Wood Farm 
and are, therefore, suggested for your guidance. 

Alfalfa Clover. 

This is a most valuable food for poultry in winter 
or summer. Dont overlook it. Alfalfa, sprouted 
oats, cabbage and mangels for green food in winter, 
together with clean, draught-proof houses, venti- 
lated by curtain fronts, with the pure sunlight as a 
disinfectant and with clean grains properly balanced 
and properly fed, winter eggs at 6o cents are a certainty. 

Hatching. 

For those who do not raise more than two hundred 
chicks, the “old hen” method will be found the most 
satisfactory of any. Above this number, call the incu- 
bator into play. There are a number of good ones 
and they will bring out satisfactory hatches. I be- 
lieve that hen-hatched chicks must be introduced 
into the flock every two or three years as a sustain- 
ing influence affecting the vitality of incubator chicks. 

Brooding. 

The hen, when given a clean coop of proper size, 
and properly protected, will bring her brood to ma- 
ture or weaning age without much loss. With the 
“hen” method of hatching no other brooding 


The Tale of the Golden Egg. 


69 


system is needed, and often incubator chicks may be 
parcelled out to broody hens with excellent results. 

Artificial brooding is fully covered by the instruc- 
tions given by the makers. Such instructions should 
be religiously followed, because the makers have 
made a careful study of the subject and know how 
best to manage the machines they manufacture. 

Feeding the Chicks. 

No sloppy food of any kind at any time. Small 
grains, properly balanced (for sale by all poultry 
supply men), fed in clover chaff from babyhood to 
maturity, clean water, wheat bran always, and good 
beef scrap after the fourth week. When chicks are 
five weeks old, increase size of grains fed. At ten 
weeks, separate pullets from cockerels. Feed females 
forcing food for eggs. Feed cockerels fattening food 
for roasters. 

Lastly. 

Do not hesitate to write Holly Wood Farm, 
Darien Center, N. Y., for their advice upon 
any subject that arises, and at any time. Enclose 
a stamp for the reply, and we will cheerfully give 
you our best judgment, coming from twenty-five 
years’ experience with poultry. Don’t let trifles dis- 
may you. There’s health, happiness and independ- 
ence in the poultry industry, and it is just in its 
infancy. It is better to be a king among your feath- 
ered friends and a man to your family and fellowmen 
than the electric push-button on the desk of some 
so-called Captain of Industry. In the first instance, 
you are a live one^ and in the latter you’re as dead 
as Rameses of old. 







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BSKKEEPER l 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES. INC. ' 

111 Thomson Park Drive 

C Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 

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